Predilection

A/N: Mhmm always wanted to write something like this…It's more introspective than anything 'cause I wanted some Vincent and Cloud interaction without all the VxC-shipping involved.

…Hopefully they didn't come off OOC.

Warning: Profanity. Some blood – nothing gory of course.

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII.

Cloud didn't quite remember how he ended up standing at Vincent's doorstep, only that when he entered Kalm, the town was descending into quiet twilight and it was suddenly clear that he had to reach the gunner's place. There were no crowds to stare at his paper pale face, awkward gait, or gaping wound across the abdomen - the one that made him sick to look upon. At the time, he felt a dazed gratefulness to this small blessing of tranquility. Now though as he tipped lightly on his feet, keenly feeling the effects of blood loss, he could only imagine how much of a miracle it was that he was still standing unaided.

The cool breeze whipped around him briefly and he shuttered his eyes, inexplicably tired; however, a small nudge in the back of his mind and the twinge of hot pain kept him from truly resting. There would be plenty of time later, he reassured himself, because he unfailingly believed that Vincent would be accommodating.

Tentatively with a hand gripping the stair railing, the injured warrior knocked on the wooden door – the barrier between himself and his comrade. And as if mimicking a broken marionette, he let his weary arm drop once more against his side, numbly noticing the smudge of red he left on the door. He'll have to apologize about the bloodstain later but not now when he had a more pressing issue at hand. Cloud's only concern now was that Vincent was – for a lack of impersonal words – 'home', because if he wasn't, then he'd have to break down the door and he didn't think he had enough energy for that.

Luckily for him, he didn't have to.

The tarnished bronze doorknob twisted slowly and as the door swung open, Cloud could only blink blearily at Vincent's black-clad figure. Notable was the absence of his customary red cloak and golden talon-like gauntlet but despite that, Vincent still commanded his body in an imposing, predatory stance. Cloud could even spot the glimmer of the small hidden hand knife in his right hand while Cerberus glinted dangerously within the holster at his hip.

He thought wryly how Vincent always seemed to be ready and voiced those sentiments then, inwardly wincing as his words slurred together. The weakness he felt betrayed him.

Did Vincent just give him an accusatory glance? Cloud swayed on his toes and gazed into the scarlet eyes with uncertainty, wondering if showing up unannounced was a great idea. Briefly Vincent returned his stare coolly, emotion flickering within the depths of his irises. Cloud could not identify them and was only vaguely aware that there was fire and tension that cocooned the pair.

He tried to steady his heartbeat.

The moment ended when Vincent suddenly shifted to the side, bidding him entry into his domain. Cloud could only manage a silent nod and stumble pass the threshold before a strong, steady hand gripped his shoulder to guide him around the two-room flat. Blood and grime, he noted regretfully, was tracked across the meticulously clean floor and thankfully Vincent did not remark. Instead, he gently sat him down on the lonely cot and knelt in front of him, peering intently into his eyes.

Cloud stared back unflinchingly, achingly exhausted

As if too aware of what he saw, Vincent gave Cloud a reassuring squeeze on the arm and left to the bathroom. A silent flick of his left hand as he stalked off was the only indication of his motive.

'I'll get the medical supplies.'

…And when his companion disappeared from view, a dizzy relief threatened to drown him as he sat in the lonely, albeit warm, room. Truthfully, he was momentarily troubled that he might have made a mistake finding Vincent, but he shouldn't have doubted him. Vincent always understood with his still imperceptible nods and expressive eyes. Maybe that was why he trekked all the way to Kalm when Edge was clearly closer…

He did not desire Barret's well-meaning chew out. Nor did he fancy a face-off with sympathetic Tifa – at least, not yet.

And so Vincent…He was an automatic choice because Cloud trusted him in matters pertaining to guilt and helplessness. After all, Vincent understood; he always did. Cloud speculated that it was because the sniper had observed their group extensively and distinguished their individual idiosyncrasies – at times, understanding them better than they do.

He exhaled noisily, trying to remember to breathe as he calmed his nerves and the pangs of soreness. Vincent knew when to press an issue and knew that right now, it was much too soon to question about the injuries he sustained. So when Vincent re-entered Cloud's line of vision, he offered him a wan smile and Vincent returned the sentiments with the slightest wrinkle of his eyes and a cautious blink.

Cloud's smile faltered.

That was Vincent's worried expression, and when Vincent was troubled, Cloud should be anxious as well because ultimately, he trusted his comrade's judgement. With a purpose presented, the sweet silence had to be broken.

"Is it that bad?"

To his credit, Vincent's calm demeanour didn't waver when he was confronted, not that Cloud expected it to. Instead, he avoided the – what he obviously deemed – rhetorical question and remarked, "Your sweater…"

So they skirted around the issue. Outsiders might have viewed this as cold indifference, but Cloud could only hear uncertain kindness. Was he delusional from blood loss? At this point, he was not certain, but he believed in Vincent and that mattered most in the end. Vincent was their resident strong, silent character and no matter how quiet he could get, he was theirs and them, his – forever and infinity.

Forever and infinity. The pact sealed by fate. It had to be a truth, because Aerith was waiting for them there too, at the forever and the infinity.

So with Vincent's prompt, Cloud could only look at his sweater absently, realizing the dried and fresh blood caught on the threads. His hands quivered as he fumbled with the clothing and in the struggle, he sucked in a hissing gasp and strenuously tugged off the garment. Cloud tried to ignore the tensing of Vincent's frame in response to his pain and how a grimace touched his flawless expression of serenity.

Seconds pass and once more, Vincent caught his attention, this time with a gentle touch by brushing his warm, ungloved right hand along his injury. Cloud could only sit and stare and wonder.

His hand was so pallid against the blood and he felt at fault because such pale hands shouldn't be so close to blood…

He was hallucinating. Red merged into blues and greens and-

"Cloud."

Upon being addressed, he refocused his eyes upon the pair that were burning with a certain ferocity under the dim lights. The smouldering eyes darted in the direction of his hands and Cloud took that as a cue, telling him to 'unclench your fists and relax your muscles'.

He obliged obediently.

Tender ministrations followed with the skilled hands as they worked dexterously to abate the bleeding. Soft pressure on the wound and a swirl of clean white cloth turned the steaming water red – everything felt much too surreal.

…That was, until there was the candle, a burning needle, antiseptic, and gauze.

And Cloud knew that Vincent did the best he could but it still hurts, damn it, and he tried his best to breathe evenly but everything came up in hurried gasps. At times, he felt Vincent waver as he stitched the wound close and it was all he could do not to scream at him to 'hurry up 'cause it hurts'.

But of course, no words were exchanged because none were needed. Empathic, Vincent knew and Cloud felt the warm hand absently brush away the sweat collected at his brow just as the needle was set down, leaving his injury raw but better.

Was the solid, physical contact a reassurance for him? He wasn't too sure because even through the haze, he could see that Vincent's eyes were sharp but also too strained and the red of his irises seemed to deepen just so. No, if Cloud had to put a finger on these emotions, it had to be fear and concern. The gentle gesture…Perhaps Vincent was comforting himself with the fact that Cloud could still feel his presence – that he was still conscious and breathing.

So when Vincent finished wrapping the gauze around his waist, Cloud was not surprised when he felt the soft nudge, a guiding hand in disguise, and heard the low whisper, telling him to rest.

Even dazed Cloud could pinpoint the echoing concern in Vincent's baritone voice and he sighed softly, murmuring, "Thanks Vincent." The bitter unmentioned message, 'Thank you for having to put up with me and my injured ass. I promise to tell you later about how a single mother of four died because I wasn't fast enough to stop the ugly six-legged son of a bitch' was left in the open air.

In turn, Vincent positioned him flat on his back against the mattress and lightly squeezed his right shoulder in support, a quiet meaning 'Rest first and I'll hold you to that promise'. Cloud observed him slinking away to the chair situated at the corner of the room, becoming the sentinel at guard.

Before he fell asleep though, Cloud recalled how Vincent always gave him time since Vincent seemed to believe that time was the only value he was capable of giving. Cloud trusted there was more to that – no matter how Vincent denied – where his time meant his friendship.

Cloud cherished this friendship dearly and he told Vincent so in a tired murmur.

And under the cozy covers of the bed, he noticed Vincent's soft, responding smile.

End

Spyrit